


Snowballs and Starlight

by WhiteEevee



Category: No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Canon Universe, M/M, Nezumi is a Scrooge, Secret Santa, Snowball Fight, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21974263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteEevee/pseuds/WhiteEevee
Summary: Shion is walking home from dog washing, and decides to detour to walk Nezumi home from the playhouse. Nezumi is mean (as is his MO), and Shion decides to take his revenge.2019 Secret Santa for elrohir.
Relationships: Nezumi & Shion (No. 6)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 19





	Snowballs and Starlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elrohir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrohir/gifts).



The snow floats and falls like dandelion fluff on the wind. Shion’s canine escort frisks about in the muddy snowbank just to his left, chomping occasionally at snowflakes that err too close to her eager muzzle. Although the dog looks laughable in moments like this, Inukashi assures him she’s a scrapper when it comes to confrontation. It’s been weeks since the run-in with the Disposers, so Shion isn’t sure he still needs the dog’s protection, but he’s glad to have her company on the solitary walks home from dog washing. He means to name the piebald mutt, but he hasn’t settled on the right one just yet, and he wants to make sure he gets Inukashi’s approval first.

The snow has been constant the last week. There’s so much that Shion is convinced that if you cut the snow banks open like a cake, you’d get a graduated slice, starting from black muck at the bottom, rising to grayed slush, and ending at the sugar white of fresh snow. The layers just beneath the top are fully frozen and treacherous if one doesn’t mind them well. Nezumi reminded Shion that sweet as the snow may seem the first day it comes down, it makes hell out of the ground in the days that follow. It’s especially bad when the snow compounds day after day, hiding the freezing sheets beneath clean coats. It is like walking on a pretty powdered minefield.

Shion picks his way carefully down the dark, narrow lane of the main street where the snow is less dense. This small sliver of road has not been cleared so much as stomped into submission. Though the residents of West Block do have shovels and other rudimentary means of cleaning the snow, they don’t have the luxury of time to do it, nor do they have the temperment. Inclement weather or not, the people trudged on, opening shops, hawking wares, swearing, sweating, and cursing until the dark brought them indoors again. To claim that one can’t perform their regular duties due to dangerous conditions is ludicrous; conditions are chronically dangerous in West Block.

So Shion sets out every other day to wash dogs, and Nezumi goes to the playhouse, or wherever else he gets off to when he isn’t home. It is a way of existence that Shion could never have conceived of in his old life. In No. 6, the streets would have been paved clear within the first hours of snowfall, and icy sidewalks would be a rarity, if not an impossibility. If the meteorologists predicted a winter squall headed their way, the populace would be warned to stay inside, work and class would be canceled, and families would sit inside their warm homes, sipping hot chocolates and watching the elements wail and blur outside their windows.

Shion no longer lives in No. 6, and it’s possible he never will again, but he doesn’t regret his life in West Block. Although he hopes he might be able to see his mother and Safu again one day, he doesn’t miss the city itself. Nothing ever felt real there. West Block, however, is excruciatingly real.

When Shion returns from dog washing, he feels the result of that work in the deep ache of his muscles and the fog of fatigue clouding his brain. And when it snows, he feels the sharp burn of the wind on his cheeks, the searing cold ripping in and out of his lungs, and he appreciates the warmth of his home that much more for it. Pain and discomfort are humbling teachers, and Shion feels blessed to have the chance to learn from them.

The dog hops off the top of the snowbank and into Shion’s path. She flops her thin brown tail and rubs up against his side, nosing his gloved hand. Shion laughs and pauses to give her head a good scratch.

“Sorry, am I walking too slow for you? I know it’s cold.”

The dog chuffs and the vapor ghost of her breath dances skyward. The snow is tapering off, and the fat gray clouds move slowly across the sky to inundate other places. When Shion finishes petting the dog, he gives her flank a pat and continues on. The dog follows along for a few strides but then stops and perks her ears.

“What is it, girl?” Shion sidles a bit closer. His dog escorts rarely dither or pause, so Shion pays special attention when they do.

The dog’s ears swivel, and she turns and trots down a side street. Shion follows without hesitation. He trusts the dog would not lead him into danger, and besides, it doesn’t seem that this alley sees much traffic. Shion’s legs sink mid-calf into the untrod snow and he shivers at the chill pressing at his skin through the fabric of his pants.

The alley lets out onto another street, which lays quiet but for a gray building two doors down. Conversation buzzes from the cracked doorway and Shion can see the faint amber glow of candlelight from the upper windows. The dog stops in front of the building and plops down onto her hindquarters. She gives a light bark and wags her tail.

Shion studies the exterior and realizes that the building is not gray, but faded green, a few shades shoddier than the carpet in the underground room. The snow around the building is heavily trodden, so much that Shion can actually make out the sporadic cobblestones that make up the streets of West Block. Whatever this place is, it’s popular.

Shion glances at the dog, wondering what drew her here. Then, he hears it:

A voice rises above the hubbub and the noise ceases, snuffed like a candle. The voice flutters in song, and though Shion stands outside and the sound is muffled, goosebumps prickle his skin. The song is crisp, clean, and clear, the singer’s timbre pure as the reverberation of struck crystal. Shion closes his eyes and lets the beauty of it wash over him for a moment.

“Nezumi,” he breathes. Shion would recognize that voice anywhere.

He doesn’t recognize the song, though, and after a moment more of listening, Shion rakes his teeth over his lower lip. This must be the playhouse Nezumi works at. Shion had been strictly barred from Nezumi’s performances, and he has never had a chance to seek out the playhouse. But now that he’s here already....

Shion reaches a hand toward the cracked door and glances down at the dog, as if she could advise on whether this is a good idea. The dog stares back with her liquid brown eyes and wags the tip of her tail. Shion figures she must approve, since she led him here, and pushes the door open.

The air inside the entrance is stuffy from the bodies packed into the room beyond. Shion can see the backs of men and women through the open doorway, and the sound of Nezumi’s song floats over their heads like fairy music—Shion can’t help but gravitate toward it.

“Hey!”

Shion jolts. An elderly woman glares at him from behind a small table at the side of the room. Nothing is on the table except her gnarled hands and a dun colored lockbox.

“You got a ticket?” she rasps. The woman looks like an ancient oak tree come to life, and her voice is dry and rough as bark.

“Oh. Uh, no,” Shion says, coloring a little at the raw dislike on her face.

“Got any money, then?”

“Oh! Yes, I…” Shion roots around in his pockets for a few seconds before he remembers he hasn’t been paid yet. Inukashi always pays him at the end of the week, and it’s only mid-week now.

Shion fists his empty hands at his sides and cranes his neck in an attempt to see into the room beyond. Nezumi’s voice tapers off on a sad, sweet note, and the room erupts into claps and cheers.

“Well?” The woman holds out her hand, her fingers curled like the legs of a dead spider.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any money after all.”

“Then get out!”

Shion flinches at her vitriol. He hasn’t closed the door behind him and the cold outside air whispers over the back of his neck.

“But couldn’t I just—”

“No!”

The woman pushes up from her chair with a series of worrying pops and shuffles toward him. Shion backs out the door and the old crone slams it in his face.

He sighs and leans against the wall, as close to the window as he can get. Nezumi has started another song, this one more lively than the last. The spectators inside laugh and clap along.

“Maybe this is the universe telling me I shouldn’t betray Nezumi’s trust?” he asks the dog, who hasn’t moved since she’d parked herself in front of the playhouse. The dog cocks her head at Shion’s question and he gives her a small smile. “Well. Thanks for bringing me here anyway. It’s nice to know where Nezumi works.”

Shion tilts his head back and watches pieces of the night sky peek through the clouds. It looks like they’ll have clear skies tomorrow. Shion’s chest fills with relief; snow has long lost its novelty.

He turns back to the dog. “I think I’m going to wait and walk back with Nezumi. You can go home; I don’t want to make you stay out in the cold.”

The dog’s ears perk and her eyes seem to narrow, as if she’s judging whether he can be trusted to stand against a building without being accosted. Her skepticism reminds him so much of Nezumi that he can’t help but laugh. The dog must decide he can manage well enough alone, because she stands, stretches, and gives his glove a lick before turning back the way they came.

Shion attempts to make a mini snowman while he waits for the night’s performances to end. The top layer of snow is quite powdery, but it holds together in a ball well enough to stack. He hears the gathering break up just as he’s adding the finishing touches: Black pebbles for eyes and two cigarette butts for arms. His slumped and mouthless creation looks more like a warning for the dangers of reckless living than the jolly, happy soul Shion envisioned, but he is proud of it nonetheless.

Shion steps aside as the playhouse door tears open and its occupants elbow their way out. The warm air they carry with them is thick with sweat, alcohol, and the odd whiff of grilled meat. Few pay Shion any mind, but he keeps his gaze low to the ground to avoid attracting the attention of anyone rowdy or drunk enough to begin something over eye contact.

When the last of the patrons files out and disperses into the night, Shion raises his head and peers into the playhouse. Nezumi didn’t come out with the crowd, but Shion hadn’t expected him to. He imagined Nezumi would want to avoid his fans and come out only when they were gone.

He could see into the main room of the playhouse clearly now through the doorway. It’s an open space with no seats that he can see, but the stage at the front is sizeable enough for a play. The stage has only one small spotlight, its bulb still glowing faintly from use. There are no microphones and no orchestra, nor any stage equipment.

Shion waits a few minutes, but Nezumi doesn’t appear. A few minutes more and still no Nezumi, and he decides to brave the crotchety old lady again.

“Um. Hi.” The woman spears him with an acidic leer, but he gives her a close-lipped smile and pushes on. “Has Nezumi left yet?”

“Who?”

“Nezumi? Or, ah, Eve?”

“ _Oh._ Another Eve fanboy,” she scoffs. “No, Eve isn’t here. He left a while ago, secretly, like he always does to avoid hangers-on like _you_. Now get out!”

Shion pulls the door shut and twists his mouth to the side. He should have guessed Nezumi would have a back way out. If he hurries, maybe he can catch up to him on the path. Shion steps over the trampled corpse of his snowman and heads in the direction of the underground room.

Luck is on his side that night: Once Shion leaves the town behind and is on the lonely path winding its way home, he spots a familiar silhouette ahead.

“Nezumi!”

Nezumi frowns as Shion trots to his side. “What are you doing out here?”

“I’m heading back from dog washing.”

“At this hour?”

“Well… I made a detour to the playhouse.” Nezumi’s grey eyes flash as they narrow, but Shion pretends he doesn’t notice and continues, “I waited for you, but you had already left. I caught up, though. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Nezumi echoes dryly and resumes walking. “Where’s your four-legged babysitter?”

“I sent her home. I couldn’t hear you well when you were performing; what songs did you sing?”

Nezumi clicks his tongue. “Some holiday garbage. That’s all the audience wants when it snows. Tis the season and all that.”

“That’s nice,” Shion says with a smile. “No. 6 doesn’t keep a good record of songs from before the Babylon Treaty, but I think there are still a few from Christmastime… The ones about snow, at least.”

No. 6 doesn’t have any holidays apart from Holy Day, and there is nothing cheery about it. No songs, no dancing, and the only decorations allowed are banners of No. 6’s emblem. All celebrations with religious significance, no matter how loosely associated, were done away with when the city-state was established. Still, Shion has a basic understanding of what the holidays had meant to the people who celebrated them more than a decade ago.

“But even though we don’t have the winter holidays anymore,” Shion muses aloud, “I think people still feel their pull… There’s something about the cold that brings people together.”

“Yeah, it’s called fear of freezing to death.”

Shion shoots Nezumi a wry look. “You know I meant in the metaphorical sense,” he sniffs. “Winter… equalizes people. Everyone is affected by the cold—no matter who you are or how you live—and it reminds us that life is precious. And that makes you remember what’s actually important.”

“And that is?” Nezumi prompts as he kicks a snow drift. Powder explodes into their path like fine fog.

“Well, like family,” Shion answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And friends.”

“And food, and shelter.”

Shion presses his lips into a line. Nezumi isn’t looking at him—hasn’t been looking at him since they started walking—but the smug amusement in his tone is enough to make his skin itch.

“Oh, but let’s not forget peace on earth, and goodwill to men,” Nezumi chirps. Shion scowls at the sharp edge of his patronizing smile. “Those are very important _metaphorical_ things to cherish this holiday season.”

“Right,” Shion huffs. “Those too.”

Nezumi finally turns to him. “What happened to your good cheer?” he says with mock surprise. “Don’t tell me you’re done waxing poetic. I was really starting to see the vision.”

Shion stops and exhales noisily through his nose. “Why do you always have to pick apart the things I say? It’s childish.”

“Because you always speak carelessly,” Nezumi snorts. “Ninety percent of what you say is fluff—there’s no meaning behind it, no _depth._ The world is a shitty place, but you always act like everything is just perfect. Talking to you is like staring at that wall:”—Nezumi flings his hand at the shadowed silhouette of No. 6—“Pleasant at face value, but dig a little deeper, and it’s just empty platitudes.”

Shion curls his hands at his sides. The comparison stings, as it always does. Nezumi despises No. 6, and no matter how much Shion tries to assimilate and adapt to his new life, Nezumi never misses an opportunity to remind him that he will always be tainted by his connection with the city. He holds it over Shion’s head like it’s a critical flaw in his personality, drives it like wedge through their relationship and blames Shion when it causes splinters.

Shion hates it. He hates when Nezumi lashes out and criticizes him for being the catalyst, and he hates that Nezumi makes him hate him.

Nezumi lifts his chin and meets his gaze with a knowingness that causes Shion’s skin to feel too tight. 

Nezumi’s mouth twitches up into a smug smile. “Say something worthwhile, and I’ll be glad to listen like an adult.”

Then Nezumi turns and walks away.

Shion leers at his back, blood boiling. He feels small and impotent, and although he knows the feeling will pass and reason will soon be within his grasp again, at present, he wants to harness his anger to lash back at Nezumi. He knows, though, that the West Block resident is impervious to verbal assault, and Shion is no match for him physically.

Shion’s gaze drops to the snow sucking at his ankles. He kneels and packs together two hard, fist-sized snowballs, and stands again. His body buzzes with the sweet anticipation of payback.

“Nezumi!” he shouts, then takes two skipping steps, and launches one of the snowballs.

He means to hit Nezumi square in the back—even with his judgement hazed in irritation, Shion can’t conceive of doing any real harm—but Nezumi twists around, and the snowball hits him perfectly where shoulder meets neck, the edge of it just grazing his chin.

Nezumi freezes as the snowball bursts, its shattered ice crystals clinging like gems to the coal black superfibre cloth around his neck. Shion revels at the shock on his face—only for the triumph blazing in his chest to sputter when Nezumi’s gaze meets his.

Nezumi is always beautiful, but outrage lends an otherworldly element to the sharp planes of his face. His eyes gleam like quicksilver: liquid, cold, and deadly. When Nezumi is like this, Shion can conceive of how people looked upon the mutable gods of old with a commingling of fear and reverence, why even when they knew the price of transgression, they raged and loved and sacrificed for a mere moment of their attention.

Nezumi brushes the snow from his person with fastidious fury, and Shion’s body tingles with an exquisite combination of wonder and dread.

“Shion,” Nezumi says, and takes a step toward him.

Shion chucks the second snowball. It’s a fear-propelled knee jerk reaction to the low warning in Nezumi’s voice, and it’s a mistake. Nezumi sidesteps the missile easily and it evanesces into a snowbank. 

Bereft of projectiles, and with no way to make more as Nezumi approaches, Shion decides to retreat. He flees off the well-trodden path and into the field alongside it. His boots punch through the hitherto undisturbed snow, but it takes an obscene amount of effort to run in the calf-deep drifts, and Shion’s legs burn after only a few strides. Fortunately, Nezumi does not follow him in—probably because he noted Shion’s trouble wading through and does not want to sacrifice his dignity by trudging after him in a slow motion chase.

The mental image brings a smile to Shion’s face. He stops and turns to Nezumi, and they assess each other across the snowy expanse.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Nezumi says. “I’m not going to chase you around. Get back here.”

“You still look mad. I’m not coming out until you’ve calmed down.”

“Now who’s acting childish? _You_ started this.”

Shion cocks an eyebrow. “Debatable.”

Nezumi’s gaze sweeps over the field dividing them, trying to gauge if it might be surmountable after all. The intense aura about him has the same energy as that of a cat surveying a fishbowl. Shion laughs and Nezumi’s eyes flick back up. His mouth tilts mulishly and he takes a step into the snow.

Shion readies to turn and flee again, but the snow holds onto his foot when he tries to lift it and the boot gets caught on the side of his other leg. A squeak of surprise slips from Shion’s throat as he pitches backward and lands with a crunchy _whump_ in the snow. His breath whooshes out and clouds above his head.

Nezumi appears above him a moment later. “Klutz,” he scoffs, but his brow is pinched in concern.

Shion stares up at the blue-black sky and pulls a slow, silent breath through his parted lips. The clouds have migrated somewhere else, and the stars shimmer in their place. Calm washes over him, muting the icy press of the snow against his skin and banishing every thought. There is only the epiphany of _now_ , of this single moment, and the infinity of stars above him.

“Shion?”

Shion grabs Nezumi’s pant leg and tugs. “Lie down.” He doesn’t take his gaze from the sky.

“What? No.”

“You have to see this.” Shion gives Nezumi’s pant cuff another tug and drops his hand back to his side. “You won’t regret it.”

Shion’s eyes find the moon, and he stares until he can see the specter of the luminescent circle on the back of his eyelids every time he blinks.

Nezumi growls under his breath, and the snow shifts as he drops down beside Shion. He’s sitting, not lying down, but Shion takes it as a victory nonetheless. “I already regret this. It’s freaking cold.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“What?” Nezumi mutters, incredulous. “The stars?”

“ _Yes_.” Shion swallows. “There are so many of them.”

“...You didn’t hit your head, did you?”

“No.”

“It does, however, occur to me,” Nezumi says slowly, “that even if you did hit your head, I might not be able to tell the difference. You speak nonsense either way.”

Shion sighs. “I’ve lived my whole life under this sky, and I’ve never once appreciated the stars.”

“Is that a poem of some sort? Shion, really, what are you talking about?”

“This!” Shion flings his hand skyward. “This is exactly what I was talking about. _This_ is what’s important, appreciating the things around you. I never did that when I lived in No. 6.”

In No. 6, life is led with your shoulders hunched and your eyes no higher than government mandate. You take the job the city thinks you’re good for, go where you’re told to go, and you don’t dare run your mouth for fear of saying the wrong thing. Shion had lived sixteen years like a machine, and although he was never satisfied, he convinced himself he was at least content.

Then he was torn from that world of paranoia and monotony and thrown into West Block, the polar opposite of the Holy City. West Block is loud, dirty, lawless, unmonitored—freeing.

For the first time in his life, Shion doesn’t have to hold his feelings in; he can speak truthfully, and he might be disagreed with, but he can disagree right back and there is no penalty for doing so.

 _That’s_ why Shion talks so much. _That’s_ why he tends toward happy and idealistic. Because he can finally speak his mind. He’s finally free to think and imagine and desire things for himself, and sometimes he can’t help but get carried away with the wonder of it.

Shion shakes his head. “I was so busy keeping my head down, I never noticed everything I was missing. I mean… Look at the world we live in.”

The wind whispers through the barren trees, trailing icy dust in its wake like gossamer threads. The stars wink in and out of focus in the silken blackness. Somewhere down the way, a wooden door creaks, followed by children’s laughter. Shion and Nezumi lie still in the midst of a vast snowscape, but life flows on around them, unconcerned with their participation.

“It’s beautiful. Not perfect,” Shion says softly, and turns to meet Nezumi’s gaze, “but still beautiful. Don’t you think?”

The expression Nezumi wears now is one that Shion has seen more and more as of late. Nezumi is not so much looking at him, as _into_ him, as if he is desperately trying to reconcile what Shion’s saying with who Nezumi thinks Shion is. It’s a consternation reserved for magic tricks and puzzle boxes with no discernable seams.

Shion’s not sure why Nezumi has such a hard time figuring him out, but he enjoys when he makes Nezumi consider him more seriously.

“I guess,” Nezumi huffs at last.

“Thank you for acknowledging it,” Shion says with a smile.

“At this point, I’ll agree to any of your harebrained notions if it means we can get up and go home. My ass is freezing.”

“Alright,” Shion laughs. “Since you were good enough to humor me.”

Shion peels himself from the ground. His hair is cold and wet from lying so long and a shiver judders down his spine.

Nezumi brushes off the back of his pants with a sour look. When he’s done, he glances up and frowns. “Shion, you have something on your shoulder.”

“Hm?” Shion tilts his head to look.

A snowball smashes into the side of his face and Shion stumbles back a step. He turns, mouth agape.

“What, did you think I wouldn’t pay you back?” Nezumi says pleasantly. He tosses a snowball up and down in his left hand—the glove of his right is slick from the first he pegged Shion with.

Shion has no idea how Nezumi made two snowballs without him noticing, but he realizes he’s in danger.

Nezumi stops juggling the snowball and smirks. “You know how I am with debts.”

“Right.” Shion swallows. Icy droplets slip down the collar of his coat and melt into his sweater. “You got me. We’re even.”

Nezumi’s smirk morphs into a genuine smile. “Oh, but I don’t think you appreciated the snow nearly enough when you were in No. 6. Here, let me help you with that.”

“Hey—” The second of Nezumi’s throws hits Shion in the nose. He coughs and swats the snow out of his face. “Nezumi, no more. This is too much revenge—I only hit you once!”

“Not my fault you’re a lousy shot.” Nezumi walks backwards toward the path home. “By all means, hit me again. If you can manage it, that is.”

“Tempting,” Shion calls.

But as he joins Nezumi on the path, he decides it’s not worth retaliating. A hundred new tangents and observations are already queued on his tongue, and he wants to get Nezumi’s reluctant opinion on all of them.


End file.
